


A Thing So Fragile And Breakable (Clato)

by AndHerFlowers



Category: Hunger Games Series - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Christmas, Christmas Drabbles, Drabbles, F/M, Hurt No Comfort, I Don't Know Where This Is Going, but it will probably be sad, but now it isn't, childhood best friends to enemies to lovers, i guess that's the closest trope, this was supposed to be fluff
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-12-20
Updated: 2020-12-25
Packaged: 2021-03-10 20:15:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 5
Words: 2,685
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/28193067
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AndHerFlowers/pseuds/AndHerFlowers
Summary: a collection of clato drabbles for clato christmas week. prompts by @/clatoshipweeks @/coralsclato on tumblr.
Relationships: Cato/Clove (Hunger Games)
Comments: 14
Kudos: 11





	1. Mistletoe

**Author's Note:**

> uhmmm so i stuck to the prompt by like the Bare Minimum sorry hahah

It's almost funny, the lengths people will go to, just to convince themselves there's beauty in pain.

She’s sitting on a stage, all dolled up, fluffy dresses and layers upon layers of makeup. No amount of harsh lights can bring out the hideous truth – she’s been hidden enough. Buried in a shell that could become her casket.

Clove’s eyes trace the mutilated faces of Capitol people, lips curling into what could be interpreted as a playful smirk.

(It’s anything but. She would like nothing more than to kill them all. It’s a privilege she has not been granted, but the poor district kids will be distraction enough, she thinks. She can’t wait to bury her knife in the first heart.)

She thinks about the beauty that they see, china-doll-porcelain skin and stark black eyes, a veil of dark hair falling over her freckled shoulders. They think it’s her beauty that makes her invincible. They think a smile can disarm, a pair of legs in high heels trample. Clove learned a long time ago a façade breaks surprisingly easily once cut open with a knife.

 _Snow White_ , the kids at home would call her.

(Wherever home was.)

Snow White, a thing so fragile and breakable, so in need of a Prince Charming to save her from her doom.

(She would prove them all wrong.)

She thinks of a true love’s kiss, of how much she’s despised those tales since she was a child.

She thinks of Christmas, and mistletoe.

Love and sentimentality were never a big thing in District 2, but for some reason, Christmas time was the one part of the year it was allowed to be soft, and pretty, and vulnerable. Clove never cared much for boys, or girls, or anything that could step in the way of her survival, but watching the other kids intrigued her. Their foolishness, their willingness to throw away their future and own lives, and for what? For a moment of safety, of domestic fairytale? For lust, for power?

For a forever promised under a tree branch, with a person they may have to kill?

(That wasn’t entirely true – she did care, once. About a boy. But it wasn’t just any boy.)

She read up on mistletoe once, out of petty. It was a parasite, simple as that. It damaged what it touched, took over, suffocated the life out of its host. Took what it wanted and gave nothing in return.

She liked it better after that.

Clove watched, and waited, and laughed. People could kiss, and promise, and long all they wanted. In the end, parasites like her would get to them all.

Caesar thanks her, and she smiles, a promise: _she will be the mistletoe they want her to be, and_ _they will never see her coming._


	2. Baking

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> i said 'tis the season to cry, and when i promise something, i deliver.

He is on the outside looking in.

Physically, he is there – on the train, sitting by a table, speeding towards ~~fame~~ ~~doom~~ victory.

(He will drop into that arena, and he will murder anyone in sight. It will be that simple.)

But the moment he lays his eyes on the full table, on _the riches the oranges the cakes_ , he is transported back, back, to a moment he barely remembers, to a moment before he was _Cato_ , said in a loud, important voice, called up on stage, called into training, called into ~~ruin~~ greatness, to when he was only Cato, whispered in a sweet, sweet voice of a mother. 

(It is never that simple.)

He doesn’t remember his childhood before training much, only pieces, shards of broken glass, droplets of tears long wiped away by blood. The people who shaped him made sure of that.

There is one memory, though, that stands out, that refuses to be expunged, thrust into oblivion. It’s about cakes, and Christmas, _and Clove_. And it won’t leave, won’t allow him to forget.

(He knew her. He knew her before she was lost, and now he was going to kill her.)

Cato’s birthday was in July, but hers was in the dead of winter. The girl down the block, with black, black hair and black, black eyes ~~and a black, black soul~~ who would come by his house and they’d run around, burning their lungs empty of the future, and of the games, and of anything but her shrill little laugh and his empty promises.

(“Promise me we’ll never hate each other like the big kids do.”

“Never ever, Clover. We’re different than them. We’re better.”)

It was a clear December night, the kind where the air is crisp and cruel, like she would someday become. Her fifth birthday was a week away.

He remembers his mother, aged hands covered with flour, whispering conspiringly; him laughing at her antics, a bubbly feeling of excitement building in his belly, a happiness so childish and pure _, a thing so fragile and breakable_. He remembers Clove, in a too-big orange dress, her eyes lighting up at the sight in front of her.

They made a tray of biscuits with ginger and orange peel, saved by Cato’s mother for the special occasion. He didn’t complain about the lack of sugar in his food the weeks before, didn’t raid the pantry like he would have otherwise.

He was proud, because Clove’s eyes glimmered and she smiled at his mother with a little awe and a lot of gratitude, and he remembered those eyes in the months before, when her mother died in the quarries.

They had tiny specks of flour in their hair as they ate a cookie each, a little chewy and a little bland in retrospect, but still the best thing they had tasted in their short lives.

They clutched another cookie each when they were huddled together, listening in on Clove’s father crying and saying “Thank you,” and Cato’s mother responding in a tight, sorrowful voice: “It’s the least we could do, before …”

It was their last birthday before training.

(They were not different, and they were not better.)

(She was gone. She had been killed long ago, and it was not his fault. He will only kill her shadow.)

(He was gone, too. It was for the best.)

(He is going to kill her, and her blood will stan his ~~lips~~ hands, and it will be glorious.)


	3. Gifts

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> day three. it's only getting worse. i'm sorry, except i'm not.

“Clover.”

She tenses, the name catching her off guard. It’s been so long since somebody called her that. Too long, but that isn’t something she could admit. Not to Cato, not to anyone – barely to herself. It hurt, but it was also a comfort, no matter how begrudgingly she accepted it. The missing, it proved to her that she was still in there somewhere, the Clover she used to be, hiding behind the walls and the teeth.

But these were the last moments before the Arena, before the Hunger Games, so it was time for that part of her to wither, to die. And if it couldn’t do that, she had to push it down so deep that not even sky-blue eyes and whispered goodbyes and “Clover,” could bring it to the surface where it would suffocate.

“What?” she snaps, quicksilver tongue and quicksilver heart and maybe he’ll think the tears in her eyes are quicksilver, too.

Cato stands in front of her, tall and broad and safe – _no, not safe, not safe anymore_ – as ever. Blue eyes, blond hair, a killing machine. She should be afraid. She’s not, though. It’s _Cato_.

“I know you’re not bringing anything in the arena.” He’s talking about a token, a memory to tie them to the world Before, the world outside. And he’s right – she isn’t bringing one. It’s a distraction, and a blind hope, to think even as a victor, she could ever be again as she was. There’s no leaving the games, and there’s no returning into the loving embrace of a mother or a friend or a lover, to return their ring, to clasp a necklace around a neck and smile, because you’re finally home. There will be no more home.

 _Twist, twist, twist_. Twist your emotions, until they become useful. Until the rust of blood smells sweet, and the fingers itch for a blade. Until you hate _him_ enough to kill him, too.

His hand reaches for hers, palm closing over palm, and she remembers too late to flinch, to pull away. he lets go, lets the thing he was holding slip into her grasp.

Memories come at once, flooding in like the tears gathering behind her eyes. A red ribbon of leather, and one around his wrist. The loving embrace she was pushing away, the home she would never return to, resting on the warm, freckled skin.

_To find me even when they change you; to come home even if the world is in flames._

Childhood promises, clumsy fingers wrapping the bracelets around each other’s wrists on the first day of training.

_We’re different, Clover. We’re better._

What a fragile, breakable thing, the dreams of a six-year-old not yet ruined.

She wants nothing more than to let him tie the bracelet around the bony, slender wrist, take hold of his hand and emerge into the arena. She wants nothing more than to feel his eyes, watching her back, as they take down child after child, nameless soul after nameless soul, to lick the blood off his cheek and smile, to kill them all and then some after, anybody who dares to try and take him away from her, anybody who steps in the way of crowns on brows and knives in hearts and lips on lips on lips …

She wants nothing more than – _him_ – to go back home.

“We’re in the games, Cato. Take your kindness and your bracelet, and maybe, if you’re lucky, they’ll bury you with both of them untouched.”

What a fragile, breakable thing, the heart of a sixteen-year-old monster in love.

His eyes don’t shatter, only her heart does. Instead, he nods – blue ice, _ice, ice_ , final threads snipped with a dagger, a house in flames, the end of an end. “I’ll kill you, he says.”

 _I didn’t want to_ , the blue pleads.

_Snap, snap, snap the heart._

“Not if I kill you first.” She has never smiled at him like this before, like he is a small child and she’s about to take away his candy. It was what they swore never to lose for each other – respect.

_Or trust. Or amity. Or love, love, love._

_Twist, twist, twist the mind._

The sun is shining in her eyes as she emerges onto the platform, a porcelain doll in her music box, a pawn on the chessboard, a blade thrust into a heart. There aren’t enough lies in the world to silence her bleeding heart.


	4. Christmas Eve

“And may the odds be ever in your favor.”

There is a brief pause. One heartbeat, two. The voice of Claudius Templesmith resonates in her ears.

And then her heart snaps loose.

Cato’s arms are around her as she buries her face in his chest, violent sobs shaking her whole body. He smells like blood, and he feels different – it’s been too long since she last hugged him.

Clove holds on like she won’t ever let go. She holds on to her friend, to her childhood, and to herself.

(She can be herself again.)

He’s whispering something into her hair, soft murmurs of incomprehensive words, somehow more comforting that way.

She tells herself it doesn’t matter if there was a moment of hesitation when she thought he might kiss her. She’s not disappointed, she’s happy. She got him back.

(She doesn’t imagine the mumbled _I love you_ ’s mean what she wants them to. They’re friends – they’re Cato and Clove. This has to be enough. He has to be enough.)

Her heart is silenced once more, but this time, it doesn’t hurt nearly as much. This time, she is okay.

“This feels like Christmas Eve.”

It’s nighttime, the sky still colored a faint orange of the setting sun. He has first guard, back propped against a tree, her laying her head on the ground by him.

(If their hands are resting closer together on the grassy soil than usual, it doesn’t mean anything, and neither mentions it.)

“You’re stupid,” she responds, her usual snark not at all toned down by his proximity or the good news, “That doesn’t make any sense.”

He shifts, hands brushing against her scalp. “It does. It’s the … Anticipation. The calm before the storm. And the promise of a great tomorrow.”

Clove snickers, shaky and sweet: “We don’t hang out for a few years and suddenly, you’re a poet? Atrocious, get out immediately.”

“That’s the intention, yes.”

She doesn’t respond, only rolls her eyes. Breathing deeply, feeling a sense of safety for the first time in a while, she lets herself drift to sleep.

Before darkness envelops her, she has time to think, it _is_ like Christmas Eve, in a sense. The orange sky, the familiarity of Cato’s presence, the warm feeling hugging her frame. And the eagerness for the next day, for the sweet, sweet gifts waiting for them.

She just hopes they don’t get burning coals instead.


	5. Christmas

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> happy holidays! this is not festive.

Christmas

“CATO!”

It’s a blur, all of it – he’s running, and she’s screaming, screaming his name, but he isn’t fast enough, he was never fast enough …

“CATO!”

The world is upside down. His stomach is in his throat and this isn’t how it was supposed to go, it was supposed to be easy, it was supposed to be quick, they were supposed to _win_ , together, finally _together_ …

“Clove! Clove, no!” Her small body lays crumpled on the ground and they’re six years old again, helpless, hopeless, as the other drifts further and further away. There’s nothing he can do, nothing he –

“Stay with me, Clove, please. Don’t leave me, not _now_ , not …” _Not ever._

Her skull is dented in, the beautiful face he knows like the back of his palm, like the cut of a blade, is covered in blood. Rusty freckles mixed with bright red ones, a constellation his fingers will never get to trace. She is like the moon, a pale silver cheek, so magnificent, so much more than him, and so, _so_ far away.

“I see snowflakes,” she manages, a quiet, raspy whisper, and it’s the saddest thing he’s ever heard. “It’s like Christmas.”

Cato sobs, a throb jolting his shoulders, and God, she’s really gone, he’s lost her, and he had only gotten her back –

He takes hold of her hand, small and deadly, and her fingers give his palm the faintest squeeze, like she’s struggling to tell him something, or perhaps simply refusing to let go.

He won’t go. He won’t leave her.

_“It’s like Christmas.” She wants to say more, but her words are lodged in her throat, and it’s so goddamn hard to breathe. She wants to say I love you, I love you I love you I love you, but her lips won’t move and she’s suffocating and oh, god, she’s dying, she is going to die, and he will never know that she loved him, loves him still … She never told him. She pushed him away. Oh, god. Cato._

She’s dying and there isn’t anything he can do, except hold her hand and let the tears fall – he though he has forgotten how to cry, but no, that isn’t something you forget, not when Clove is here with him and she’s going to _die_ – as her lips quiver and she struggles to say something.

“Shh, it’s okay. It’s okay, Clove. I got you. It’s fine. We’re alright. We’ve always been. I’m sorry I let you go, I shouldn’t have …” Her eyes break, a mirror shattered against the floor, and he wants to take it all back. He shouldn’t have said that, he shouldn’t have brought it up. It doesn’t matter, all it matters is that –

“I love you, Clove,” he whispers, but her eyes are glassed over, frozen forever in that broken expression, and she didn’t hear him, he wasn’t fast enough once again, and now she will never know.

She will never know he loved her.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> this is, quite possibly, the saddest thing i've ever written. i'm sorry lmao. this shit wrecked me.


End file.
